


Rise and Shine

by lamardeuse



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:10:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1503182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana is the star of morning chat show Rise and Shine, and getting the chance to interview Guinevere, Camelot's hottest - and most mysterious - supermodel, is a feather in her cap. Too bad the interview is a disaster and her life turns completely upside down after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ: Currently incomplete; 2 of 3 chapters are up, and I hope to have the final chapter completed at some point, though as of Jan 2015 I'm not sure when this will be. This story REALLY got away from me - this is what happens when you try to write a complete AU with plot and stuff. Christ, no wonder I usually stick to fluffy romcoms. :S Nevertheless, it's been a lot of fun to write, and I will finish it!
> 
> Further note: The Merlin/Arthur in this is background. Like, really background. Morgana/Gwen is the central relationship.
> 
> Thanks so much to agirlnamedtruth for the gorgeous, inspirational artwork. Please go and FB her on her beautiful work [here](http://truthgraphix.livejournal.com/198080.html).

By the time Morgana reached the studio, her head was pounding so much that she thought it might rattle off her shoulders.

 

Her assistant's shocked expression upon seeing her was the last thing she needed. “Yes, I'm aware I look like utter shit,” she said. “Makeup will take care of it.”

 

“I don't know if there's enough makeup in the world,” Mordred said matter-of-factly. “You should be in hospital, not in front of a camera.”

 

“I'll be fine. Ring my physician's office when it opens, will you? Make an appointment for me as soon as possible.” For the first time in her adult life, she had woken screaming in the night, roused by nightmares of fire and blood. The dreams had been building in intensity over the last fortnight, the implant that had kept them at bay since her late teens clearly no longer effective. Morgana hadn't expected it could fail so catastrophically, but Gaius would know more.

 

Mordred nodded and hurried off, presumably to warn makeup that they were going to earn their pay this morning. Though she knew it was ridiculous, Morgana stopped in to her dressing room and made an effort to look less like a reanimated corpse. Judging by the way the makeup woman tutted at her while working on her a bit later, however, she hadn't been terribly successful.

 

As she was leaving makeup, Edwin arrived, clearly in a snit. Peering at her owlishly, he said, “Mordred said you were at death's door.”

 

That backstabbing little turd. “I didn't realise he'd graduated from medical school.”

 

“Funny,” her producer drawled. “Catriona can carry the show if you're not up for it.”

 

“Like hell she can,” Morgana snapped. Catriona had been gunning for her bloody job since Father had put her on the morning show three months ago; there was no way Morgana was going to let that troll take over on any day, and certainly not on this one. “You know I'm interviewing Guinevere this morning.”

 

Guinevere, Camelot's hottest new fashion model, was the most sought-after guest of the year, primarily because she normally refused all requests for interviews. She was a complete mystery, even managing to evade the pap bots that roamed the Palace district, making recordings to feed the insatiable thirst for celebrity news. However, for some reason she'd agreed to appear on _Rise and Shine_ the first time they'd asked her – provided that Morgana be the one to interview her. Morgana wasn't questioning her good fortune, and she was determined to make the most of it, but she was still puzzled as to the reason she'd been chosen. Her brother Arthur, king of the evening programme, was still smarting over her coup. He hadn't been so livid since she'd spent a week embedded with the Premier League tourney champions.

 

“She still hasn't arrived,” Edwin said. “She might well be a no show.”

 

Morgana's heart sank. Guests usually arrived shortly after she did, though it wasn't unheard of for them to be late. Her normal routine in that case was to have Mordred contact their people. Guinevere, as far as anyone knew, had no 'people', not even an agent. Considering how averse she was to interviews, it was more than possible she might not materialise.

 

Nevertheless, she hadn't won Camelot's Favourite Telly Host for the last three years by backing down from challenges. “She'll be here,” Morgana assured him. “And so will I.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morgana wasn't wrong, but she almost wished she had been.

 

At precisely three minutes before the show was due to start, she was pacing back and forth across the set like the caged gryphon at the zoo. Mordred was eyeing her nervously, having been bollocked earlier once she'd finally convinced Edwin she was fit to go on.

 

“Morgana, perhaps you should –”

 

“Are you actually about to give me a suggestion, Mordred?” she asked. “Because that would be colossally stupid for someone hanging onto their job by a thin, fraying thread, I'd say.”

 

“Right. No. Sorry,” Mordred squeaked, nodding. “I'll just go and check to make sure the chef has everything ready for the cooking segment, shall I?” he asked, and fled from the set without waiting for an acknowledgment.

 

Catriona, who was currently arrayed on one of the couches as though she hadn't a care in the world, picked an invisible speck of lint off her dung-brown dress. “Oh, leave the boy alone, Morgana. He means well, and he dotes on you.”

 

“I don't see how it's any of your business,” Morgana said smoothly. “After all, I don't interfere in your...relationship...with Jonas. Whatever that may be.” Catriona's minion was decidedly odd, and not in an interesting way. If Morgana didn't know better, she'd swear he wasn't entirely human.

 

Catriona inspected her fingernails. “Pity about your big interview, though,” she continued, as though Morgana hadn't spoken. “I imagine your father will be terribly disappointed.” The unspoken _with you_ was clear.

 

Morgana drew herself up, determined not to rise to the bait. “Your imagination is quite overwrought where my father is concerned, Catriona,” she said coolly. “I wouldn't trust it if I were you.”

 

“Now wait just a –”

 

Right at that moment, there was a commotion from the corridor behind the set, and Morgana held up a hand, cutting her off. She strode toward the edge of the backdrop and nearly ran into Guinevere as she rounded the corner.

 

She wasn't as tall as Morgana had been expecting, but then she'd only seen her once in the flesh, at some charity event to raise money for deserving Lower Town orphans. She was, however, just as beautiful as in her fashion photographs and holos, if not more so. Her hair was simply done, with soft curls framing her face, though her makeup was much more subtle than usual, revealing a constellation of freckles adorning her cheekbones.

 

“Oh, hello,” Guinevere said, completely unruffled as she extended a hand to Morgana. “I'm Guinevere.”

 

“Yes, I know,” Morgana said, taking her hand. “Morgana.”

 

“Yes, I know,” Guinevere echoed, smiling playfully in a way she never did in her pout-ridden photo shoots.

 

“We're, erm –” Morgana began, and gods, what was wrong with her? She never stammered “– about to start the show...”

 

“I'm late, I know. Traffic was horrendous.”

 

“That's all right,” Morgana said, recovering her composure. “Your interview isn't for another half hour; we can take a couple of minutes to prepare while the 'Have You Seen This Sorcerer' segment is airing.” Normally, Morgana would take at least twenty minutes with a featured guest to prepare for the interview, but it couldn't be helped.

 

Guinevere continued to smile, but Morgana noticed it had turned brittle. “Yes, of course. Preparation.” She wrinkled her perfect nose. “Is that really necessary, though? I tend to do better when things are more – spontaneous.”

 

“Two minutes is hardly likely to kill spontaneity,” Morgana protested.

 

“And two minutes won't do much for preparation, either,” Guinevere countered silkily.

 

“We're live in one! Places, everyone!”

 

“Oh, blast,” Morgana huffed, making Guinevere's eyes widen in amusement.

 

“I'll see you in half an hour,” Guinevere said, wiggling her fingers at her in farewell before leaving the set.

 

“No, wait, I –” Morgana said feebly, but Guinevere was already out of earshot.

 

“Morgana, we need you in your spot now, darling,” Edwin said in her earpiece.

 

“Yes, fine,” Morgana snapped, stomping up to her chair and flinging herself into it dramatically. It didn't help the situation, but it made her feel better for all of five seconds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The standard interview credo had been laid down years ago when Uther had founded the Network: keep it light. The purpose of the Network was to entertain, and anything which strayed from this goal was an unwelcome (probably magical, definitely foreign) idea. And so Morgana had spent her career to date interviewing the cream of Camelot society: jousting champions, dragonslayers, actors, jugglers, witchfinders, bards, and people who were paid a great deal of money to look glamourous. Nearly all of them were drawn from the Court class, but occasionally someone with a particular talent from the Lower Town, usually sponsored by a patron, would rise to prominence.

 

Guinevere had been one of these discoveries, though how precisely she had been discovered was still a matter of whispered gossip. No one really knew how she had risen to the top, or even arrived on the fashion scene; one day, she was simply there, and everyone was mad for her. At first look, Guinevere seemed to fit in easily; she appeared at all the important Palace functions, charitable events and parties, looking stunning and saying all the right things. But apart from those appearances and her work, there was no sign of her anywhere: no pap bot recordings, no fan sightings on the street or in a restaurant. Morgana had done quite a bit of digging before this interview, and she hadn't been able to find a record of birth, a social media presence, or even an address where she lived. The mystery of Guinevere had taken hold of Morgana the way no other story had in her years at the Network.

 

Despite their father's attempts to make everyone forget, both Morgana and Arthur knew that things had been different once. A handful of the old crew on both her show and the evening programme spoke in hushed tones of a time before the Network when news was _news_ : wars, famine, injustice, corruption. Morgana didn't doubt these things still went on, but since the wall had been built, no stories from lands beyond it were ever reported, and even the news from the Lower Town was heavily edited. Trade still went on with merchants from other places, but it was always conducted just outside the gates, which were locked every night. The lands beyond the wall were full of sorcery and chaos, and Uther and the Network had convinced nearly everyone in Camelot that there was nothing of interest there. In the latest survey, 98.8% of Camelot residents had strongly agreed that home was best of all, and nearly as many had said that they were moderately to extremely afraid of the beasts and sorcerers who roamed Outside with impunity. (The remainder, of course, were sent to Network headquarters for intensive re-education.)

 

Morgana had no idea how much of it was true; being born and raised in the Palace, truth was essentially irrelevant. Much more important were beauty, and laughter, and cat vids – oh, people lost entire days looking at those, there were _thousands_ available for viewing – and really, the Network argued, who needed anything more than that?

 

Lately, Morgana had been feeling that she needed more, and the mystery of Guinevere had been the catalyst. She had been reluctant to discuss these thoughts with Arthur, though she suspected her brother was also dissatisfied with his job. The Network and the people hailed him as 'The Most Trusted Man in Camelot', but Morgana wondered how much trust was required in the reporting of celebrity gossip and amusing human interest pieces in which a man taught five cats to yowl in harmony. True, Arthur was also the narrator for _Camelot's Most Wanted Magic-Users_ and as such had brought many an evildoer to justice, but after nearly a decade, the programme seemed no closer to eradicating sorcery than it had been at the start. Lately, it seemed as though the shadows around Arthur's eyes had grown darker and deeper, though he never unburdened himself to his sister.

 

But then, Morgana hadn't confided in him about her dreams returning, either. They'd been thick as thieves as children, but since they'd grown up, they'd gradually grown apart. Morgana supposed that was natural, but she couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with the Network. More and more, Morgana was feeling uneasy about her role in Uther's grand scheme. She wanted to reach out to Arthur to find out if he felt the same way, but was afraid of the consequences if he didn't, and reported her disloyal thoughts to Father. At the same time, she wondered if Arthur was silenced by the same fears.

 

 _We're all afraid,_ Morgana thought, _and we don't even know if what we fear is real._

 

The morning of her biggest interview was hardly the best time to be having these doubts, however, and so Morgana pushed them firmly aside. She had enough on her plate dealing with an interview neophyte who didn't believe in prep.

 

On the other hand, Guinevere's love of spontaneity could work to Morgana's advantage. She could ask the questions she'd been dying to ask – if she dared – and Guinevere would never see them coming.

 

 _Keep it light my arse,_ Morgana thought. Not when the closest thing to a real news item Camelot had seen in twenty-five years had finally crossed her path.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Guinevere, it's such a pleasure to have you here with us on _Rise and Shine_ ,” Morgana said.

 

“I'm very pleased to be here,” Guinevere said, smiling warmly. “Thank you for having me.”

 

“You are the person everyone in Camelot's talking about. What does that feel like?”

 

Guinevere chuckled. “Flattering,” she said. “I'm honoured to be in a position to do the work I love.”

 

“This is all new for you,” Morgana said. “What did you do before this?”

 

“A great many things,” Guinevere answered. “None of them interesting, I'm afraid.”

 

And so went the most frustrating interview of Morgana's career. Guinevere evaded every one of her more probing questions as gracefully as a dancer, expertly leading the conversation back to safer topics like her makeup and hair secrets and exercise regimen. Granted they were the same meaningless, fatuous topics that had been the mainstay of every interview Morgana had ever conducted on _Rise and Shine,_ and they were the questions the audience would doubtless be expecting. But Morgana had wanted this one to be different, and by the time the director was giving her the thirty second wrap-up warning, she wanted to pick up the perfectly arranged vase of flowers on the table in front of her and hurl it across the set.

 

“Thank you, Guinevere,” she gritted, as the theme music rose in the background, “it's truly been an honour.”

 

“You're too kind,” Guinevere said, a wicked smile on her lips, and Morgana clenched her teeth so hard she feared they might crack.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because she was a glutton for punishment, Morgana even found herself behind the cameras watching Catriona's odious cooking segment with Guinevere at the end of the programme. It was something she'd gladly surrendered to the woman when Uther had hired her, because she always felt awkward around a kitchen, uncomfortable. She and Arthur had never really had a mother, and the servants hadn't encouraged them to learn cookery. After four years on the show she could tell a fish slice from a meat cleaver, but it wasn't something she enjoyed.

 

“Won't Morgana be joining us?” Guinevere asked, when Catriona explained they'd be making butter tarts.

 

“Morgana?” Catriona tittered obscenely. “Oh dearie, no. She feels it's beneath her to cook. Of course, she'll never get a man that way, will she?” At this, Catriona tried to elbow Guinevere, but she dodged the jab effortlessly.

 

“Perhaps she doesn't want a man,” Guinevere said, and turned to look right at Morgana. That should have been impossible, considering the glare of the set lights and Morgana's position in the shadows, but Morgana felt the power of that gaze all the way through to her bones, and shivered.

 

“Well, anything is possible, I suppose,” Catriona sniffed, “but you have to admit they are terribly handy!” Another revolting giggle.

 

“I've never found them to be all that necessary,” Guinevere said, still staring at Morgana. “Please join us, Morgana,” she said.

 

“I'm sure we can get on without her,” Catriona said in an unnaturally high voice. “Now, first you take a half pound of butter –”

 

“Morgana, please,” Guinevere repeated, holding out a hand. “I need your help.”

 

And even though she was still livid about the interview, Morgana found herself walking out of the shadows at Gwen's entreaty.

 

“Oh my goodness, this is an historic occasion!” Catriona crowed, the false glee practically oozing from every pore. “The Lady Morgana has descended from on high.”

 

Guinevere only smiled at her; it was easily the most genuine one Morgana had seen on her, and for a moment there was nothing else in the world.

 

“And then you take two hundred grams of caster sugar,” Catriona snapped, and Morgana shook herself and returned to the task at hand.

 

Which apparently, because a gorgeous woman smiled at her and said _please_ , was bloody butter tarts. Sometimes, Morgana hated her life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Join us next week, when our guest will be Sir Pellinore, who rose from obscurity to become Camelot's most courageous jouster. Until then, remember that the Network wants you to be happy. Now go out and have an absolutely perfect day.”

 

“And we're clear!” Edwin called.

 

Catriona sagged like a puppet whose strings had been cut, then turned and stomped off, bellowing for Jonas. Guinevere winced, then raised her eyebrows at Morgana, who bit her lip to keep from laughing.

 

“I suppose you're used to that,” Guinevere murmured, leaning in.

 

“I am, yeah,” Morgana said. “She has absolutely no volume control.”

 

“And no mute button.”

 

Morgana did laugh at that. “That's not very nice.”

 

“I know, I feel terrible about it. And about dragging you in, but I couldn't face her alone. She's far too cheerful. Though she does make delicious butter tarts.”

 

“That's all down to you. Her cooking is usually completely inedible.”

 

“Really?” Guinevere whispered, astonished.

 

“Really. Everything she touches turns absolutely foul.”

 

Guinevere stepped a bit closer. “You, erm –” she reached out and brushed a gentle finger against the side of Morgana's nose “– you have a bit of flour here.”

 

Morgana ignored the fluttering feeling in the pit of her stomach at that fleeting touch. “I hope that didn't get picked up by the cameras.”

 

“I think you were probably okay,” Guinevere assured her. “Listen, Morgana...”

 

“Yes?”

 

Guinevere glanced around. “I'm sorry I couldn't answer some of your questions earlier.”

 

Morgana's heart pounded, causing the headache she'd been keeping at bay to make itself known again. “You didn't answer any of my questions earlier,” she pointed out.

 

Guinevere laughed. “True. You're quite clever, though – you made it very hard for me to avoid them.”

 

“You managed, so obviously you're cleverer than me,” Morgana retorted, aware that sounded rather petulant.

 

“Well, I don't know about that,” Guinevere said gently. “It's more a matter of motivation. You're looking to further your career: my stakes are quite a bit higher.”

 

“Why did you want to come on the programme at all?” Morgana asked.

 

“Because I wanted to meet you,” Guinevere said, eyes sparkling. Morgana would have taken it for simple flirtation, but it was clear now that there was more to it than that.

 

“You said your stakes were higher. How high?”

 

Guinevere's eyebrows rose. “Would you really like to know? Not because it would make good telly, but because you're actually interested?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Guinevere regarded her steadily, as though trying to see through to her soul. “Then I may tell you.”

 

Reaching into a hidden pocket in her dress, she drew out a small card and handed it to Morgana. “Meet me here at nine tonight.”

 

Morgana turned the card over. The simple white lettering on a black background gave an address in Lower Town. “I –”

 

“Don't worry, it's a cafe, not a den of iniquity,” Guinevere assured her, her mouth curving. “If you come alone, we might go somewhere more interesting afterwards.”

 

“You don't trust me,” Morgana said, unsure why that stung quite so much.

 

“You haven't given me reason to yet,” Guinevere shot back, winking. “I'll see you tonight.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morgana squinted against the bright light Gaius shone in her eyes. “Is that really necessary?” she asked irritably.

 

“Yes,” Gaius said. “Eyes open, please.”

 

Morgana complied with a sigh, and after another minute of agony, Gaius finally shut off the torch. “Well, I can find nothing physiological that can explain the failure of the implant,” he said.

 

“So it's defective?”

 

“Possibly. In any case, it's useless and should be removed immediately.” Gaius rummaged around in a drawer, extracting a device that looked like some ancient implement of torture.

 

Morgana stiffened. “Here? Now?”

 

Gaius raised an amused eyebrow. “Yes, I know it looks a bit fearsome, but it's perfectly safe. As you know, the implant is subcutaneous; it's actually quite a simple procedure.”

 

“Yes, all right,” Morgana said, feeling foolish. Turning her back to Gaius, she lifted her hair out of the way and tilted her head forward, exposing her neck. She felt the cool brush of an antiseptic swab.

 

“Now, this will only be –”

 

There was a sudden, sharp pain and a wet noise Morgana didn't want to think too much about. “You might have given me a bit more warning,” she snapped.

 

“I don't, usually. People tense up or jerk away. That can make it rather messy.”

 

“Lovely,” Morgana muttered.

 

“Hold still,” Gaius instructed, and Morgana felt him spread something over the spot which soothed the burning. “We'll just stick a small plaster there – done.”

 

Shaking out her hair, Morgana turned to face Gaius again. “When can you put the new one in?”

 

“Another fortnight.” At Morgana's no doubt displeased expression, he added. “Nothing else for it, I'm afraid. It's a minor procedure, but the area still needs to completely heal before we introduce another device.”

 

“And what, exactly, am I to do in the meantime?”

 

Gaius reached for a vial that was sitting on his storage cupboard. “Take a teaspoon of this every night,” he said. “It will help quiet the dreams.”

 

“My old medication didn't work. Hence the implant.”

 

“This is a new treatment that was developed about five years ago,” Gaius replied. “It should do the trick in the short term. Take a teaspoon as soon as you get home and again before bedtime.”

 

“Marvelous,” Morgana said, taking the bottle from him. “While I’m at it, have you anything for a headache?”

 

Gaius reached for a small packet. “Willow bark tablets. Take two now; you can repeat it in four hours if it’s not effective. And try to get some rest, Morgana. You work yourself too hard.”

 

“I’m Uther Pendragon’s daughter,” Morgana said ruefully. “It’s not exactly a choice.”

 

Gaius only smiled sadly and patted her on the arm, the way he had done since she’d been a little girl. “There is always a choice, my dear, although it’s often easier to think otherwise.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morgana spent far too long choosing her outfit for her meeting with Guinevere. She had only been to the Lower Town a handful of times in her life for personal appearances and charity events, and those had all been carefully supervised by security forces in broad daylight. Everyone knew that Palace residents risked robbery, assault or kidnapping if they ventured outside of their neighbourhood after dark. Although the Guards were masters of the daytime throughout Camelot, the denizens of Lower Town ruled their territory once the sun set.

 

The trick was to look as inconspicuous as possible, which was difficult considering the pap bots roaming the streets, snapping photos and recording vids as soon as Morgana ventured outside. However, as though they too feared harm, they thinned out as she walked east and disappeared altogether when she reached the abandoned train station that marked the zone between the two areas. Pulling out her comm to check the map, she sighed when the screen winked out and died. She could have sworn she'd charged the battery just yesterday, but clearly she'd been wrong.

 

It was ridiculous, she knew; she should have taken the car, but that too would have been suspicious. No, better to try her best to blend in, wearing some old, worn clothing from her student days she'd found in the back of a cupboard. The blouse was a bit too tight, and the jacket was hopelessly out of fashion. Doubtless Guinevere would laugh at her, but she was determined to go ahead with this, to find out more about the woman who had bested her so effortlessly.

 

She reached the cafe about fifteen minutes late, having misjudged the distance. At least her head had finally cleared, Gaius' willow bark having done its work. The vial of potion was still in her purse, untouched. Morgana wasn't sure why she hadn't followed her physician's instructions, other than the fact that she'd had terrible luck with potions in the past. She'd almost prefer the nightmares.

 

Guinevere was sitting at a small table in the back of the cafe, sipping her coffee. She was also dressed simply, but much more stylishly than Morgana was, her hair tied back. Although she was wearing even less makeup than she had first thing this morning, she still looked ridiculously gorgeous.

 

“I thought perhaps you'd changed your mind,” Guinevere said.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

Guinevere smiled and waved at the chair across from her, and Morgana sat. “Would you like something to drink? I'm afraid we have no actual coffee – the Palace gets all the real stuff from Outside. I'm used to it, but I'm not sure if you'll like it. The tea is locally made as well, but it's much better.”

 

“No, thank you,” Morgana answered. “I'm fine.”

 

Guinevere sipped her drink. “Well, at least now I know that you're definitely here for business rather than pleasure.”

 

Morgana's cheeks flushed. “I – you said you'd answer my questions from this morning. I assumed –”

 

Guinevere shook her head, her mouth curving. “Don't worry. It's not necessary for you to find me attractive for me to answer them.”

 

“But I do,” Morgana blurted. A couple of people from neighbouring tables turned their heads to look at her. Guinevere bit her lips, clearly fighting a laugh.

 

“Don't you dare look smug,” Morgana hissed.

 

“I'm not smug,” Guinevere said. “I'm flattered. You have a well-earned reputation for...imperturbability.”

 

That was the kindest paraphrasing of her 'Ice Princess' nickname that Morgana had ever heard. “Well, I haven't been feeling quite myself lately,” she muttered. “And that's all an act. I'm actually quite perturbable, especially when someone cleverer than me makes me look a fool on my own programme.”

 

“I'm doubly flattered,” Guinevere said, “but it wasn't my intent to make you look a fool. There were just certain things I couldn't share with the whole of Camelot. Not yet, anyway.”

 

Morgana's heart sped up. “But you can share them with me?”

 

Guinevere flicked her eyes towards the entrance, where a man Morgana hadn't seen when she came in was sitting. He inclined his head at Guinevere. “You came alone, as you promised.”

 

Morgana suppressed a shiver at the realisation that someone she hadn't even noticed had been watching her as she walked through the Lower Town. “And how do you know I'm not wearing a recorder or a transmitter?”

 

“Even if you were, it wouldn't matter.”

 

Morgana frowned. “What do you mean? Why not?”

 

Guinevere leaned back in her chair. “Have you ever wondered why the pap bots don't venture into Lower Town?”

 

Morgana opened her mouth, then closed it again. It seemed poor form to point out the reason.

 

Guinevere chuckled. “Ah, I see you've swallowed the image of Lower Town as a crime-riddled pest hole. And you call yourself a journalist, do you?”

 

Morgana bristled. “I am a journalist.”

 

“Then why don't you ask questions that _matter_? Why do you accept everything you're told about Lower Town, about Outside?” Guinevere leaned forward. “About every place and everyone you've been taught to fear?”

 

Morgana's eyes widened. What Guinevere had just said constituted a crime against the Network; it was lucky for her that Morgana wasn't wearing a wire. “Some things are facts,” Morgana shot back. “They don't need to be questioned.”

 

Guinevere's face had become a cold mask. “Is that what your father brainwashed you to believe?”

 

“Leave my father out of this.”

 

Guinevere shook her head. “I'm afraid I can't do that.”

 

“What do you mean by that?” Morgana demanded.

 

Guinevere's only response was to sigh. “I'm sorry, Morgana. This was a mistake.”

 

“What? No, wait – you said you wanted to answer my questions.”

 

“Actually, it was a friend of mine who wanted to speak with you,” Guinevere said. “He had this notion that you would be able to help us. It was his idea that I go on the programme and meet you. I'm going to tell him he was wrong.”

 

Morgana's head was spinning. This was so much more than ferreting out the story of a fashion model's origins; she'd managed to stumble on what might turn out to be the biggest story in the Network's history. She felt completely out of her depth, and it was _exhilarating_. 

 

Suddenly, a light came on: tapping a fingernail on the table, Morgana said, “The pap bots don't work for the same reason a recorder wouldn't work. There's some kind of technology inhibitor operating here, isn't there? Perhaps even – a magical field.”

 

Guinevere raised her eyebrows. “That would be illegal.”

 

Morgana matched Guinevere's expression. “Yes, it would.” Resting her elbows on the table, she leaned forward. “It's a good thing I have no evidence. It would make a juicy story. Also, I'm not here tonight as a reporter. I'm here because I couldn't stay away if I wanted to. Because you made me feel stupid, and I don't like feeling that way. Because I feel like there's something I could be doing, something more than I am now. I'm hoping you might be able to help me with that.”

 

Guinevere gazed at her for a long moment, while Morgana held her breath and tried not to squirm under the scrutiny.

 

“All right,” Guinevere said finally, rising to her feet. “But you may get more than you bargained for.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guinevere took her on a long walk down winding streets and along back alleys until Morgana was thoroughly lost, although she rather imagined that was the point. They ended up at what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse, its crumbling brick facade testament to its age.

 

As soon as they reached the huge wooden door, it swung open for them effortlessly, as if they'd been expected. Morgana shivered, though there was no chill in the air. From inside wafted the sound of live music, the heartbeat of a skin drum overlaid with flutes and guitars.

 

When she crossed the threshold, Morgana felt an odd feeling of vertigo, as though she were about to float away. The sensation quickly passed, but it set her teeth on edge and made her stumble slightly.

 

Guinevere gripped her elbow, steadying her. “Are you all right?”

 

“Yeah, just – suddenly lightheaded,” Morgana said. “Long day, I suppose.” 

 

Guinevere cocked her head. “It's not fatigue that you're feeling, Morgana. Avalon has that effect on some people.”

 

Morgana stopped dead. Avalon was the underground club that was rumoured to be frequented by the most notorious sorcerers in Camelot. The Guard had been trying to locate it for years, but it was never in the same spot two nights running, and when they tried more comprehensive searches of the entire district, they always came up empty.

 

Despite its ephemeral nature, however, it didn't seem to have any trouble attracting clientele; the place was jammed to the rafters. Morgana studied the scene before her – while the interior was easily as shabby as its exterior had been, the club was surprisingly homely, with groups of comfortable chairs arrayed in vaguely circular patterns throughout the building. Although there didn't seem to be any visible sources of light, there was enough to make your way round without falling over anyone, and the bar at one end appeared to be fully stocked.

 

“This is amazing,” Morgana breathed. “How in the world do they move all of this every night?”

 

“It doesn't move,” Guinevere answered. “At least not on the inside.”

 

Morgana started and turned towards her. “You – excuse me?”

 

Guinevere laughed. “Yeah, that's what I said the first time Merlin told me that.”

 

Morgana ignored the short stab of disappointment. “Oh, well – that's, erm –”

 

“There he is,” Guinevere interrupted, waving at someone across the room.

 

Morgana looked in the direction Guinevere had indicated, but it was difficult to pick out a specific person in the crowd. After a few moments, however, she could pick out a tall, slender, dark-haired man weaving his way towards them.

 

“Hello, love,” the man – presumably Merlin – said to Guinevere, enfolding her in a tight hug.

 

Guinevere squeezed back. Morgana saw her lips moving at his ear, but the words were too quiet for her to hear above the music and general din of conversation. He pulled back, still holding her by the shoulders, and nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “You'll see.”

 

“I certainly hope so,” Guinevere said archly. There was a twinkle in her eye similar to the one Morgana had been treated to this morning. It made Morgana feel a bit queasy.

 

“It's wonderful to finally meet you, Ms. Pendragon,” Merlin said, extending a hand. “I'm Merlin.”

 

Morgana nodded curtly, reaching out, and then their hands gripped and held and –

 

_Uther shouting, red in the face, more enraged than she'd ever seen him –_

 

_Arthur with a gun in his hand, tears in his eyes –_

 

_Her lungs nearly bursting as she ran through shadowed streets at top speed –_

 

_A flash of blue light and an explosion whose shock wave knocked her back –_

 

_Guinevere lying in the dirt face down, motionless –_

 

_And one word._

 

“Emrys,” Morgana heard herself say, her voice sounding faraway to her own ears. “You're Emrys.”

 

Merlin's eyes widened, and Morgana knew she was right. Emrys, the most powerful sorcerer in Camelot, a wanted terrorist, with a price on his head that would make anyone rich were they to turn him in. There were no photographs of him, not even a description, and yet she was as certain of his identity as if she'd known him all her life.

 

Guinevere stepped forward. “How do you know that?”

 

But Merlin only smiled and continued to hold her hand, completely unperturbed. “You see, Gwen? I told you.”

 

“You told her what?” Morgana asked, still shaking. 

 

“That your destiny is to free Camelot from its chains.”

 

Morgana tugged her hand out of Merlin's grip. “Erm,” she said, checking her chrono. “Is that the time? I really should be –”

 

"What have I told you about subtlety?” Guinevere sighed, glaring at Merlin.

 

Merlin threw up his hands. “I know, I'm sorry. It's all Kilgarrah's fault. I've been spending far too much time with him lately.”

 

“I'll say you have. You're starting to sound like that overgrown iguana.” Turning back to Morgana, she said, “Listen, what do you say we all three of us go somewhere quiet and talk? I promise that we mean you no harm, and if you say you want to leave when we're through, I'll take you back to the main road. But hear us out, at least. Please.”

 

Morgana paused, scanning both their faces. She'd been taught all her life to fear sorcerers, and Merlin was the most terrifying of them all – though he hardly looked the part. Morgana guessed him to be in his early to mid twenties, no more. Dark-haired, his wiry arms were adorned with intricate tattoos, and he had prominent ears and surprisingly kind eyes. Nevertheless, if Morgana had any sense, she would run from the club now – but then, she had no idea how to get home from here.

 

_If they had wanted to kill you,_ Morgana thought, suppressing a shiver,  _they would have done it by now. And you're as good as kidnapped anyway._

 

“Fine,” Morgana said, crossing her arms. “It's not as though I have a choice.”

 

“There's always a choice,” Guinevere said, echoing Gaius' words from earlier in the day. 

 

“What about all this talk of destiny, then?” Morgana demanded. 

 

Guinevere huffed. “That's the dragon talking. I think he's full of shit, personally, and most of the time so does Merlin.”

 

“Yes, all right,” Merlin said irritably, chewing on a thumbnail, “I'm going to take a break from him for a couple of days.”

 

“Wait, you have – a dragon?” Morgana asked.

 

“More like he has us,” Guinevere muttered. “We're breaking the bank feeding that monster.”

 

“Look, we agreed he's invaluable,” Merlin protested.

 

“Yeah, you and the other magicks agreed, but I didn't,” Guinevere shot back. 

 

“Sometimes democracy can be a pain in the arse, can't it, your Highness?” Merlin said sweetly. Guinevere aimed a playful cuff at his head, and he laughed, ducking the blow. 

 

Morgana took a deep breath, let it out. Their easy banter – over the upkeep of a dragon, no less – was oddly reassuring. Though she was still nervous, Morgana found herself relaxing slightly.

 

The band chose that moment to crash into another number, and Merlin gestured to an empty set of chairs nearby. “Shall we, then?”

 

Morgana followed his lead, and the three of them sat together. “I'm not quite sure how this is a quieter place to talk,” she shouted at them.

 

Grinning, Merlin waved a hand over his head, and Morgana sucked in a breath as his eyes flashed golden for a moment. The air around them crackled, and then there was silence, as though a soundproof dome had been erected around them.

 

“By the gods,” she breathed.

 

Guinevere laughed. “It wasn't that exciting, was it?”

 

“Oi,” Merlin said.

 

Morgana shook her head. “It's only that – I've never seen anyone perform magic before.”

 

“Oh, Morgana,” Merlin said, his face falling. “You have.”

 

“No, I'm fairly sure I'd remember if I'd seen something like that,” she said crisply.

 

“Tell me,” Merlin said softly, “how many of the dreams you've had since your childhood told you things that came true.”

 

Morgana's heart tried to pound its way out of her chest. “That's not the same. And anyway, how do you –”

 

“You're a Seer,” Merlin said. “In the Old Religion, Seers were the most revered of the priestesses, for they were possessed of a very rare magical power. It's a gift to be celebrated and nurtured, not a curse to be beaten down with drugs and implants.”

 

Morgana's hand went instinctively to the back of her neck. “I had an implant for years, but it stopped working and was removed this morning. Did you have anything to do with that?”

 

Merlin shook his head. “No, I didn't,” he said, and for some inexplicable reason Morgana believed him. “But it may be tied to the prophecy.”

 

Beside him, Guinevere made a soft groaning sound. Merlin rolled his eyes. “Or it could just be coincidence.”

 

“Thank you,” Guinevere said smartly. “What he's trying to say is – you're magic. Just like him.”

 

“That's impossible!” Morgana blurted. “I can't help the dreams I have!”

 

Merlin smiled. “I couldn't help being born with magic, either. None of us could. The difference is that we embrace it and you've been taught to run from it.” Merlin leaned forward. “If you'll let me, I'll be happy to help you to explore your power safely.”

 

“I – I don't know,” Morgana said. “I'm not sure if I want to. The dreams – it's awful knowing what will happen.” That was, she realised, the first time she'd spoken of her clairvoyance aloud. It was terrifying and strangely liberating at the same time.

 

“I don't have direct experience of the Sight,” Merlin admitted, “but I know what it's like to not have any idea how to control your magic. With our help, you'll be able to control it too.”

 

“And you want to help me because I can help you,” Morgana said warily. “What is it you think I can do for you?”

 

Merlin and Guinevere exchanged looks. “That isn't completely clear yet,” Merlin said, “because the dragon tends to speak in riddles – but we know we can't do what we need to do without you.”

 

“And what exactly is it that you need to do?”

 

Guinevere leaned forward. “We're going to put an end to the Network's control over us and restore magic to Camelot.”

 

“Weren't you lecturing me about subtlety earlier?” Merlin asked, turning to her.

 

“And what were you going to do, talk around it for the next three hours? Do you really think Morgana Pendragon will work against her father's company, magic or no? She's perfectly happy to stay drugged and in the dark – about everything.” Guinevere shook her head. “This was always a mistake.”

 

“Right, well,” Morgana said, “if that offer of directions home is still on offer, I think I'll take it.”

 

Merlin nodded, clearly crestfallen. “I understand. But listen, if you ever want to learn to live with your power, I'll be happy to help you with it. No strings attached.”

 

Morgana frowned. “You'd do that?”

 

“Of course,” Merlin answered. “You're one of us.”

 

Morgana stared at him for a moment. No, this man was not anything like the Emrys she'd been told about.

 

What else was a lie?

 

Guinevere was on her feet. “I'll take you back,” she said curtly. Nodding, Morgana rose and followed her out of the club. They walked in silence until they reached the deserted station, when Guinevere turned to her.

 

“I know you're not going to believe this,” Guinevere said, “so I have no idea why I'm saying it. But things were different once. Better. Trains from here –” she waved a hand at the dark, crumbling building in front of them – “took you to cities all over the Nine Realms. We had plays and art and shows and news that connected us to each other instead of driving us apart. We had schools that taught you how to _think._ And people weren't persecuted for who they were, or for who they dared to associate with. 

 

“You love your father, and you want to think the best of him. But he's not doing what's best for Camelot.” 

 

“You're planning to kill him, aren't you?” Morgana whispered.

 

Guinevere shook her head. “No, I'm not. Though some would say I have cause.” She dipped her head in a mock-bow. “Goodbye, Morgana. I'm sorry I couldn't give you that interview after all.” And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving Morgana shivering in the suddenly chill night air.


	2. Chapter 2

Morgana always spent Sunday lunch with her brother and her father at Uther's home. It was tradition, and none of them had missed one so far. This Sunday, however, Morgana was sorely tempted to break that record.

 

She'd suffered through two near-sleepless nights, plagued by those same images she'd seen when shaking Merlin's hand. She tried to extend the visions – of her father, of Arthur, but there was never any more. At one point, late on Saturday as she lay panting up at the ceiling, she'd wondered if Merlin truly could help her – then had swiftly dismissed the notion. It was madness to go back to the Lower Town now that Guinevere and Merlin had confessed their intentions. In fact, Morgana should be reporting Guinevere and providing a description of Merlin to the Guard. Why hadn't she done that as soon as she'd returned home?

 

And yet, every time she thought about turning them in, she felt nauseous, as though to do so would go against her nature. She rationalised it away by arguing that Merlin could probably assume any shape he wished, being a powerful sorcerer, and she had no direct evidence against Guinevere. Certainly, her word might count for something initially, but it would never hold up in court.

 

And so she headed to Sunday lunch with a coating of makeup so thick that she was afraid it might succumb to gravity and slump right off her face, feeling exhausted and angry at herself and frustrated by her inability to act or to understand what was happening to her.

 

“You look like shit,” Arthur told her when she arrived.

 

“Not the first time I've heard that this week, but thank you for the brilliant observation,” Morgana sniped back.

 

“Please don't be vulgar, Arthur,” Uther said, stepping forward to enfold his daughter in a brief hug. “You do look a bit wan, darling. Have you been eating?”

 

“Oh yes, tonnes,” Morgana assured him. Uther leveled an eyebrow at her but offered no further commentary. “And what have you been up to this past week, brother dear?”

 

“Nothing much,” Arthur said, pouring her a gin and tonic on the rocks. “Interviewed the sword-fighting champion and nearly got my arm chopped off when he was showing me some of his best moves –”

 

“I didn't know men's dicks could actually sever limbs,” Morgana said sweetly. Arthur narrowed his eyes.

 

“For gods' sake, Morgana,” Uther huffed.

 

“What about you?” Arthur asked. “Any highlights this week?”

 

“I'd rather not discuss it, thank you.”

 

Uther said, “Yes, I saw your interview with Guinevere. It was a little...rough in spots.”

 

Morgana barked a laugh. “It was rough in _every_ spot.”

 

“What happened?” Arthur asked.

 

“Like you didn't see it,” Morgana scoffed. “You'd give your severed limb to get an interview with her.”

 

“I will have an interview with her at some point. And when I do, I won't be as crap as you were.”

 

“I wouldn't count on it. She's cleverer than me, which means she's approximately a _hundred times_ more intelligent that you are.”

 

“Funny,” Arthur said. 

 

“Children,” Uther said darkly, and both of them subsided, sipping their drinks in silence.

 

“I was wondering,” Morgana offered after a minute or two. “About Emrys.”

 

Arthur's head snapped up. “What about him?”

 

“Well, I'd like to do a story on him, but there's so little known, isn't there? How is it possible that we don't even have so much as a description?”

 

Uther waved a hand. “Because those people protect their own,” he said. “They have no loyalty to Camelot.”

 

Arthur relaxed into his chair. “He's probably an old man. Most sorcerers that powerful are.”

 

“With a long, flowing beard?” Morgana said. “I suppose. But he could just as likely be a skinny git with big ears.”

 

Arthur's hand twitched, and his drink tipped into his lap.

 

“Bugger!” he snapped, leaping to his feet.

 

Uther scowled at him. “Arthur, what is the matter with you?”

 

“Nothing,” Arthur muttered, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping ineffectually at his trousers. “Nothing at all. Just clumsy.” He looked up at Morgana, and his gaze was almost frightening in its intensity. “I'd stick with my format if I were you. Serious witchfinding is the province of the evening news.”

 

“Says the man who hosted _Help! I Married a Sorceress,_ ” murmured Morgana.

 

“What was that?” Arthur demanded.

 

“Nothing,” Morgana said, sipping on her drink. “Nothing at all.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After dinner, Arthur offered to walk Morgana back to her flat, and while she was perfectly capable of going home on her own, the look in his eyes told her she should accept.

 

As soon as the door closed behind them, Arthur rounded on her. “What was that about Emrys earlier?”

 

“Nothing,” she said. “I was only thinking about perhaps doing a segment on the – psychology of magic-users. He seemed like a good place to start.”

 

“And you pulled that description out of your arse, did you?” Arthur snapped.

 

Morgana stared at him. “By the gods. You've met him.”

 

Arthur drew himself up. “I've heard rumours. Clearly you've heard the same ones. And if they were obtained by the same means, then you're swimming in very dangerous waters.”

 

“Thanks for the advice,” Morgana said coolly. “I think I can find my own way home from here.”

 

Arthur put a hand on her arm, and she halted. “Morgana, please. I – I really am concerned for you. Getting mixed up with sorcerers –” Arthur trailed off, running a hand through his hair “– it's never a good idea. They confuse you, make you doubt yourself.”

 

“You sound like you're speaking from personal experience,” Morgana said. She scanned the street briefly, but it was quiet. “Did he do that to you? Is that why you didn't turn him in?”

 

Arthur also glanced around. “Why do you want to know?”

 

“Because I'm trying to understand why I'm not giving a description of him to the Guard,” she murmured.

 

Arthur's eyes widened. “Gods, Morgana.”

 

She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “He doesn't seem dangerous to me. He seems kind, and a little absent-minded, and quite harmless.”

 

“He's not harmless,” Arthur gritted. “He's the most powerful sorcerer Camelot has ever seen, and he can't be trusted.”

 

Morgana caught movement out of the corner of her eye. “Damn and blast, it's a bot. I want to talk to you about him, about what happened to me; I feel like I'm bursting. Come home with me.”

 

A muscle in Arthur's jaw twitched. “I don't want to talk about him,” he said, looking at his shoes. “Not now, not ever.”

 

“Arthur,” Morgana began, but Arthur nodded at the bot, which was now within recording range.

 

“I'll see you next Sunday,” he said, and walked away. The bot stopped, momentarily confused as to which of them was the juicier target, then followed on his heels.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After Monday's show, Morgana went to see an old friend. Geoffrey Monmouth was retired now, but he'd been a cameraman at the Network for most of Morgana's life, and before that. She still saw him occasionally, though it had been far too long since they'd last met for tea.

 

“Geoffrey,” Morgana began, “I was wondering if there were any old films I could see.”

 

“Oh, the Network's archives are quite extensive, yes,” Geoffrey said. “I'm sure you could find just about anything you wanted there.”

 

Morgana hesitated. “I'm talking about films that predate the Network.”

 

Geoffrey's mouth worked for a moment before he spoke. “You want – you want vids from Before.”

 

“Yes.” Morgana felt as though she were confessing a sin, and perhaps she was.

 

“I don't have any of those,” Geoffrey protested.

 

“Do you know someone who does?”

 

Geoffrey eyed her for a long moment. “I'm sorry, my dear. I don't think I can tell you that.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because in addition to being a lovely woman and a dear friend, you are also Morgana Pendragon.”

 

Morgana closed her eyes. “Yes, I understand.”

 

“What do you want these vids for?” Geoffrey asked. “You're happy, aren't you? You have a high-profile career, a fine flat, friends, family. There's no sense in jeopardising that.”

 

“What if I'd already jeopardised my career? What if I were beginning to wonder why I have a right to be happy when so many others seem to be miserable? What if I'm questioning whether this is the only way to live?” _What if I'm asking myself which decision leads to the future I'm seeing every night, and wake up terrified every time because I don't know?_

 

Geoffrey regarded her for a long, tense moment. “I'll get in touch with my friend,” he murmured. “If she's interested, she'll contact you.”

 

“Thank you,” Morgana breathed, relief washing through her.

 

“Don't thank me. I've often envied you young ones; for you, it's always been this way. Believe me, knowing too much about the way things used to be is a curse.”

 

“I've recently met some people who would disagree with that statement,” Morgana said.

 

“Hm,” Geoffrey said. “Troublemakers and revolutionaries, clearly.”

 

“Clearly,” Morgana muttered. She poured herself another cup of tea, but it had turned bitter. Sighing, she drank it anyway; until they could give you caffeine intravenously, she had to take what she could get.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Given Geoffrey's reticence, Morgana was quite surprised when his friend actually contacted her three days later. She arranged to meet her Friday evening at an address in Lower Town.

 

Sandrine's flat was small, but well-kept, with bookshelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling. She greeted Morgana with a warm smile which didn't completely meet her eyes.

 

“Thank you for agreeing to help me,” Morgana said.

 

“Geoffrey said you could be trusted,” Sandrine said. “He's never given me any reason to doubt his judgment.”

 

The unspoken _yet_ was clear, and Morgana nodded her understanding. Sandrine's expression softened a little at that, and she led Morgana into the flat. “Would you like some tea?”

 

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Morgana said.

 

“I'm afraid I don't have any biscuits,” Sandrine said. “There were none at the shop earlier today.”

 

“Oh, I brought a little –” Morgana turned and reached into her bag. In her nervousness she'd forgotten. “It's not much –” she ventured, holding the small box of cakes she'd bought earlier at the shop near her home.

 

Sandrine took them as though they were precious. “I haven't seen these in years.” Shaking her head as though to clear it, she stood. “I'll just fetch a plate.”

 

“May I help you?” Morgana asked, rising to her feet.

 

Sandrine paused, then smiled. “Yes, thank you, dear.”

 

After the tea had been made and they were sitting down, Sandrine said, “I'm afraid these vids aren't well organised. My husband was a reporter – he worked with Geoffrey – and I've never had the chance to go through them.”

 

“That's not a problem,” Morgana said. “I'm grateful for anything you can share.”

 

Sandrine passed her the data disc, then offered her a tablet. “Thanks, but I have my own,” Morgana said.

 

“You'll use this one or none at all, I'm afraid,” Sandrine said. “Mine isn't connected to the Network.”

 

“Oh,” Morgana said, feeling stupid. “I'm sorry, I – I didn't think.” All tablets – well, clearly not all of them – were integrated into the Network. There was no way to shut off the connection, as far as she knew. As a result, viewing these vids on her own tablet could definitely bring her some unwanted attention.

 

Sandrine frowned. “You weren't hoping to record them, then.”

 

“No, I – it honestly didn't occur to me. It should have. But I've never done anything like this before.” Anything that would make her father angry, that would make him feel as though he'd been betrayed by his own daugher.

 

“Why _are_ you doing this?” Sandrine asked. 

 

_Because a woman named Guinevere has made me question most of what I know, and Emrys has made me question the rest,_ she was tempted to say. “Because I want to know the truth,” she said instead. 

 

“Well, that's a start,” Sandrine mused. “I'll leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything.”

 

“Thank you,” Morgana said again, powering on the tablet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morgana awoke with a start. It took her a few seconds to recognise her surroundings – she'd fallen asleep on Sandrine's couch, and there were soft murmuring voices coming from the kitchen.

 

The memories of everything she'd watched came flooding back to her. Guinevere had been right, everything had been different. Camelot had been a cosmopolitan city, trading openly with its neighbours, welcoming visitors, a place where all citizens regardless of wealth or magical ability were equal under the law. No one had seemed to fear sorcerers; in fact, several of them held trusted positions in government. The most well-known of these had been a woman named Nimueh, who had worked closely with her father.

 

The one thing that the vids hadn't told her was how it had changed.

 

Morgana shifted carefully on the couch, trying to hear the hushed conversation. She realised Sandrine had covered her in a blanket, and smiled.

 

“– too much of a risk to bring her here,” a familiar voice – not Sandrine's – hissed.

 

“You take greater risks every day,” Sandrine answered calmly.

 

“Mum, please –”

 

“Gwen,” Sandrine answered, and Morgana's heart leapt into her throat, “I'm not arguing about it with you. But at some point, you need to start trusting people again.”

 

“She's the last person I'd trust,” Guinevere said.

 

“Merlin thinks she's more than she seems. And now that I've met her, I'm inclined to agree with him.” There was a pause. “You can't blame her for who her father is.”

 

At that, Morgana decided she'd eavesdropped enough. Sitting up, she stretched and rose to her feet. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to fall – Guinevere?” She blinked, as though not quite believing what she was seeing.

 

“Hello, Morgana,” Guinevere said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

 

“I don't understand.”

 

“Gwen is my daughter, dear,” Sandrine said, and Morgana endeavoured to look surprised. “I've heard you've already met.”

 

“Yes, we have,” Guinevere said, glaring at Morgana pointedly.

 

“Well,” Morgana said, feeling terribly out of place, “I should be going.”

 

“Gwen will walk with you,” Sandrine said.

 

“Oh, thank you, but I found my own way here.”

 

“You may have questions after seeing those vids. She can answer them for you.” Sandrine shot a look at Gwen, who sighed.

 

“All right then, come on,” Guinevere said, heading for the door.

 

Sandrine walked towards Morgana and took Morgana's shoulders between her hands. “She's not usually this ill-mannered,” Sandrine said.

 

“I seem to bring it out,” Morgana murmured.

 

“It's not you, dear.” Morgana looked up, and Sandrine shook her head sadly. “I don't envy your journey, Morgana. Gwen's father will always live in her memory as a hero. If you continue on this path, yours will topple off his pedestal.”

 

“I know. But I don't think I can turn back now.”

 

“Come back anytime,” Sandrine said. “If you need to talk, or if you just need a place to think.”

 

“Thank you,” Morgana whispered, giving the older woman an impulsive hug, which Sandrine returned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The man in the vids was your father,” Morgana said. Probably not the best as a conversation starter, but she was feeling brittle and a little belligerent herself.

 

“Excellent investigative journalism,” Guinevere said, voice dripping sarcasm.

 

“He was an amazing reporter,” Morgana said, deliberately misinterpreting Guinevere's barb. “I'd never heard of him before.”

 

“You wouldn't have,” Guinevere said. “He refused to work for the Network when it started. Your father sent him for 're-education.' We never saw him alive again. They said it was a heart attack, but his body was returned to us cremated so we'll never know.”

 

“Gods,” Morgana breathed, feeling as though she'd been punched in the gut. “Guinevere, I'm so sorry.”

 

Guinevere shrugged. “Just forestalling all the questions,” she snapped. “Are we done now?”

 

“I know you have every right to hate me,” Morgana said wearily. “I can't help wishing you didn't.”

 

“I don't hate you, Morgana. I don't have the energy to spare. It's only that I don't see the point of you. Kilgarrah thinks we can't do without you, and since he does, Merlin does too. I'm not convinced.”

 

“I'm not convinced, either.” She paused. “Why did things change? I didn't see anything about that in the vids.”

 

“We don't know for certain. Uther claimed that foreign sorcerers had been planning a concerted attack on Camelot. He arrested a handful of them, including his closest advisor, Nimueh. They were tried and executed swiftly, but there's never been any concrete evidence that there was such a plot. But the charge gave Uther the excuse he needed to bring in his 'reforms'. The border was closed, and anyone who had been associated with sorcery or who questioned the government was denounced and removed from the Palace. Lower Town became a holding tank for everyone who'd been discarded.”

 

“Your mother –”

 

“She was a university professor. When most of it was shut down, she lost her position, and her views had been labeled as pro-sorcery so she wasn't even allowed to teach younger children. She works as a server in the cafe where we met the other night.”

 

Morgana swallowed around the lump in her throat. Sandrine had mentioned her father falling from his pedestal: while Morgana had never idolised him, but he had still been her _father_ , for better or worse. Now she was learning that he was also a man to be hated by many others – and with good reason. 

 

“When did this happen?” she asked.

 

“Twenty-five years ago,” Guinevere told her. “I was six years old.”

 

Morgana would have been four and still living with her mother before she was killed and she went to live with Uther and Arthur. “I don't remember much from that time,” Morgana said. “Certainly not the politics. But I do remember going to Igraine's funeral that year.”

 

Guinevere frowned. “She was Uther's second wife, wasn't she? Arthur's mother.”

 

“Yes.” Morgana searched her memory. “I think I remember my mum telling me that she had died having Arthur. Yes, that was definitely it – that's why I didn't like Arthur for a long time when I was small.”

 

“I wonder if there's a connection,” Guinevere mused. 

 

“Could it be useful?”

 

Guinevere stopped walking, stared at her. “I don't know. Are you offering to find out?”

 

“I could see if there's some mention of it in Uther's papers.”

 

“Is that risky?”

 

“If I'm not careful. But I suppose this way we'll find out if I really am a journalist, won't we?”

 

“Morgana –”

 

“I can find my way from here,” Morgana said, turning and walking away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another Sunday dinner, but this time Morgana arrived on Uther's doorstep with a suitcase. “You don't mind if I stay for a couple of days, do you, Father? I decided yesterday that I wanted my flat repainted and the men will be there first thing in the morning.”

 

“Of course not,” Uther said. “Stay as long as you like.”

 

Morgana smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “You're a darling. I'll come by directly after the show tomorrow.”

 

The next day, Morgana arrived to a house that was empty of everyone except George, the young butler, who seemed determined to make an impression by waiting on her every need. As he didn't take any of her more subtle hints, she finally had to dismiss him rather rudely. George slinked off with his tail between his legs, and Morgana immediately scampered upstairs to Uther's study.

 

The door was, predictably, locked, but Morgana knew where Uther kept the key. Once inside, however, she was in the dark. If there were incriminating evidence, surely he would have either destroyed it long ago or kept it secure? She started with the bookshelves, but there were no hidden letters or documents packed inside hollowed-out volumes, nor was there a lever revealing a sliding panel and a secret lair.

 

All of Uther's desk drawers were locked. Cursing under her breath, she searched for a key, to no avail. Sitting on the floor, she reached under the desk, feeling for a catch.

 

“Open, damn you,” she muttered, frustration welling up as she found nothing.

 

The drawer lock emitted a soft _click._

 

Morgana jerked back. She tugged on the drawer handle and it opened smoothly.

 

By the gods. She'd just performed magic. The next time she saw Merlin, she would have to ask him if 'open, damn you' was an official spell.

 

The drawer contained about two dozen old-style data disks, organised by a simple numbering system. There was no documentation to indicate what each one might hold. _Of course_ , Morgana thought. She owned nothing that might be able to read them, but it was possible that Geoffrey or Sandrine might have an old Box that could.

 

If she took them and Uther noticed, he'd be after the thief, and sooner or later the suspicion would fall on her. But if she replaced them with identical disks...

 

Smiling, Morgana shut the drawer quietly and placed her hand over the keyhole. Closing her eyes, she was not surprised when she heard the  _thunk_ of a lock turning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You're back again,” Guinevere accused, when she and Merlin walked into her mother's flat a couple of days later.

 

“I feel like I never left. Look what we've found,” Morgana said, turning the Box to allow Guinevere to see the screen.

 

“What you've found,” Sandrine said. “I can't claim any credit.”

 

“What is it?” Merlin asked.

 

“Records of Nimueh's 'trial',” Morgana said. “She pleads not guilty throughout, and swears that Uther has no evidence.”

 

“But we knew that already,” Guinevere said.

 

“Yes, but there's something she says as she's being led out that's very interesting,” Morgana said, advancing the vid to the end.

 

Nimueh's voice emerged from the Box, tinny but clear; Guinevere leaned in closer to hear it, and Morgana got a whiff of her perfume. “This is of your own making, Uther Pendragon,” she called out. “Your will cannot command the balance of the world, any more than your arrogance can deny the fulfilment of destiny. A life is created, and a life is taken. That has always been the way.”

 

“A life is created, and a life is taken,” Guinevere repeated. “Does that mean that Arthur's mother –”

 

“– paid for Arthur's life with her own?” Morgana finished. “I wondered about that, so I went looking in Gaius' records. He's been our family physician for decades.”

 

Guinevere stared at her. “And he just – let you?”

 

“Not exactly,” Morgana answered, “but his records are much easier to break into than Uther's. Anyway, Igraine was infertile; they'd been trying to have a baby for years, but none of the traditional methods worked.”

 

“You think Uther and Igraine sought magical help to conceive,” Merlin mused.

 

“I think Uther did, anyway. We'll never know if Igraine agreed to it.”

 

“Either way, the magical world works exactly as Nimueh says,” Merlin said. “The Old Religion teaches us there must be balance. Life cannot be created from nothing; there is always a price.”

 

“Like the law of conservation of energy, in physics,” Sandrine said.

 

“And a fortnight after Igraine's death, Nimueh and the other sorcerers were arrested. Gods,” Morgana breathed, “this is nothing but a personal vendetta. Nearly my whole life, I've been taught to believe this is all for the best, and it's nothing but the consequences of Uther's – _guilt_ at what he did.” Suddenly, she gasped as the pain hit her broadsides. She clutched at her head, groaning.

 

“Morgana!” Guinevere exclaimed, gripping her shoulder. “What's wrong?”

 

“Headache,” Morgana ground out. “They've been getting worse.” Not to mention more sudden and more frequent, but that was far too many words considering she was gasping.

 

“Morgana, may I try something?” Merlin asked.

 

“Whatever you want. Chop off my head with an axe; I don't care.”

 

Merlin chuckled. “Nothing so dire as that. Here,” and he took her head gently in his hands, fingers splayed into her hair. He then whispered a few words in a language Morgana didn't understand, and in a trice the pain was easing to a bearable level.

 

“You have to teach me that,” Morgana said. 

 

“I can teach you many things that will help you,” Merlin said. “Will you let me now?”

 

“Yes,” Morgana breathed. “Yes, please. Only tell me one thing first.”

 

“Anything.”

 

“Is 'open, damn you' a spell?”

 

Merlin laughed. “If it isn't, it should be.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
